


Now, Here, Now, Always

by MadameHardy



Category: Fire and Hemlock - Diana Wynne Jones, Perilous Gard - Elizabeth Marie Pope
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHardy/pseuds/MadameHardy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now and Then may be closer than they sometimes appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now, Here, Now, Always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aoife_hime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoife_hime/gifts).



It was a foggy morning in December. The night had been long, and Kate Heron had found herself unable to sleep. Every little while she had woken, sweating, from dreams of sorrow, loss, and death. In the dark of the morning Kate rose, shivering, wrapped herself in her furred bed-gown, and lit a rush-light at the banked fire. Then, drawn by some impulse she could not name, Kate slipped softly downstairs to the kitchen, empty but for the sleeping scullion. Kate picked up the cook’s pattens, slowly opened the kitchen door, walked across the yard, and stepped softly into Christopher’s garden.

The garden usually lifted Kate’s spirits, even in winter. Everything was in order, the dead herbs neatly cropped, the ancient pear on the wall pruned to encourage new growth, the hopeful peach saplings tied up in sacking to tide them through the frosts. This grey morning, however, a thin mist shrouded the garden, and the frost-crusted plants offered no hope of a Spring resurrection. Kate opened the creaking gate in the old orchard wall and walked on into the water-meadow, the frozen grass crunching under her borrowed pattens. She stepped on a frozen hummock, turned an ankle, and nearly fell. If she came home with torn hands and muddy clothes, she’d have to explain herself to a worried household. Kate sighed. Whatever she had been seeking, it did not seem to be here. She turned to get home before cockcrow woke the household.

The mists, instead of rising with the coming morn, had thickened into an impassable wall. Kate turned in a slow circle, but the rushlight showed her nothing but grey on any side. She was no longer sure which way the house lay.

_I shall stand here until the mist lifts. ‘Twill be chilly, but no great matter; Cook can mull me a posset when I get home._ And if the mist didn’t lift? Then the household would come and find her. No need to multiply worries.

Then, through the mists, Kate made out an indistinct figure; her pulse quickened. Had Kate indeed been drawn here by some outside influence? The Lady had promised vengeance, and the Lady kept her promises. If that vengeance had followed Kate to Norfolk, well… the People wandered the roads now, and the road to Norfolk was no rougher than any other. Good sense returned. Most likely ‘twas a beggar, needing a warm corner and a bite to eat, and those Kate could and would give gladly.

The figure walked closer, about eight feet away, and stopped. Kate could not call the figure a man or a woman; it dressed like neither, and indeed like no person she had ever seen. It wore faded blue hosen and a ridiculously plump padded jerkin; its long, silver-fair hair blew free of any pins or nets. Kate had never seen that face before, whether at Court, in the household at Elvenwood Hall, or among the People. 

The stranger tossed its hair over one shoulder and spoke, in a musical voice that clearly belonged to a woman. “Is this some sort of fancy-dress party? Are you one of Laurel’s people?”

“Laurel?”

The stranger said, “Oh, don’t play stupid. Laurel Leroy.”

“I know no Laurel.” Kate’s next words burst out unplanned. “ I thought you came from the Lady.”

“The Lady?”

They stared at one another. The fair-haired girl stuck out a hand. “Polly Whittaker.”

Kate made a curtsey. “Kate Heron.”

Polly’s eyes measured Kate from head to toe. “That’s not a costume, is it? That’s the way you usually dress.”

“I would have asked you the same question.”

“I _thought_ so,” Polly said with some satisfaction. “Time travel. Real, proper time travel. What day is it where you come from?”

Glad of a question with a sensible answer, Kate replied, “‘Tis St. Lucy’s day, or will be when the sun rises.”

“It’s December 22 for me -- the shortest night.”

Kate shook her head. “The shortest night is St. Lucy’s Eve.”

Polly looked thoughtful. “Calendars do change … but the seasons don’t.” After a moment, she went on, “Just who is ‘the Lady’?”

Kate said, feeling her way, “A woman of great power whom I once offended. And your Laurel?”

“Much the same. Although I suspect I’m still offending her.” Polly gave Kate a long look. “Did you once … did you once save a man --”

They spoke in unison, “--on Hallows’ Eve.” Kate clapped a hand to her mouth. 

Polly said: “--I’m never easy on the equinoxes, but I didn’t know if the solstices counted, too--”

“--Four festivals a year, the Lady said.”

“That settles it.” Polly gave a decisive nod. “Oh, I do wish we could have a good cup of tea and talk this through properly!”

Kate skipped over “tea” to the meat of it. “We’ve nothing to do but stand here, so we might as well make use of the time. Was it your man, the one you saved?”

Polly nodded vigorously. “Tom Lynn. He’s a cellist.”

“It _did_ all turn into a song! Mine is Christopher Heron.”

“Then you married yours. Congratulations. I assume there wasn’t any eyes-of-tree or truthful tongue or anything like that?”

Kate shook her head. “Christopher lies no more nor less than any other good man. Did you marry your Tom as well?” 

“No. I daren’t. “ Polly’s face became grave. “The closest I could get -- well, I live nowhere. Or nearly. Lands’ End, and that was the best I could think of. Sometimes I get a chance visitor, just a coincidence, you understand. He travels a lot because of the quartet, so there’s airport lounges, long train trips, and anything betwixt and between. Once he got a gig on a cruise ship, and we sailed up and down. In between we write, but then we always did -- it's where we’re best, I sometimes think. We’ll never be completely free of Laurel. What about you?”

“The Lady wishes us ill, she made no bones about it. I tell the cook and the maids to buy no nuts nor fruit nor spices from a pedlar, no matter how tempting or how good the price. There is little else I _can_ do; we live a good, quiet life and hope for the best.” Kate pressed a hand under her heart. 

Polly looked at her sharply. “Are you….” and she nodded at Kate’s hand.

“I cannot be certain. I think … I hope so.”

“I shouldn’t dare. Laurel’s out for blood, and our child’s would certainly qualify.” 

Kate’s hand tightened. “It grieves me to hear so.”

Polly lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know that I want one. My parents were dreadful at parenting, and I was never terribly good at being a child. Besides, I like having time to myself, time to write. Even Tom and I might not get on very well if we were always together.” Polly’s expression lightened. “Look behind you -- I think the mist is lifting!”

Kate turned her head and indeed she could just spy the old garden wall. She turned back to Polly; behind her, Kate could just see the edge of a sea-cliff. “I must go back before I’m missed. I wish we could -- I wish you good fortune.” _I wish you may never meet Laurel again, nor I the Lady._

Polly, blunter, said, “And may our pasts never catch up with our presents. I’m for home now. I might -- I’m hoping for a chance visitor.” 

“Good chance to you, then.” Kate made a last curtsey and Polly swept back an elaborate bow. 

Kate turned and picked her way back to the garden gate. The winter sun had begun at last to rise. Kate blew out her rushlight. A thin line of smoke told her that the kitchen fire was already alight. There’d be a scolding in the kitchen, and another in the bedchamber if she was not there before Christopher awoke. Kate pulled the gate closed behind her. Then it caught her eye. Pale against the knotted grey foot of the pear tree was a single white bloom: the first of the Christmas roses.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SwanTower for very last-minute beta.


End file.
